


Coronation

by bombcollar, maliciousfisheeves



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Collaboration, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 17:39:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14062014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maliciousfisheeves/pseuds/maliciousfisheeves
Summary: Lothric is crowned king, but Lorian knows their worries are far from over.





	Coronation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collab between Fish and I, written back and forth in google docs and edited together so it looks like less of an RP log. We hope you really enjoy it!

The hall is packed, attending members of the royal family, knights and clerics, representatives for all three pillars squeezed into the throne room shoulder to shoulder. Historically, coronations were solemn affairs, preceded by weeks of prayer, fasting, reflection upon the rulers of the past, their mistakes and accomplishments.

But there is no time left. The Flame is dying and the king must be the one to link it. It isn’t always a king, sometimes it is a favored knight, a champion seasoned by battle, or a cleric whose life had been dedicated to serving the kingdom’s most vulnerable, but the Flame desires something even more precious this time. Nothing less than a king will be suitable.

The attendees murmur amongst themselves, over the clink of wine bottles held in shaky hands, filling and refilling glasses. Lothric’s queen is elsewhere, attending diplomatic matters abroad, unable to see her son crowned. Oceiros stands beside the throne, picking at his nails until blood beads at his fingertips. Nobody looks at him, or at the two princes waiting for the priest to finish his droning address. Lothric tries to focus on what he’s saying, knowing it’s important, but his head is swimming in the fuzzy heat of the room, the fever beneath his skin. Lorian had apologized over and over to him, promised it would be quick, that he could go back to bed afterwards.

Silently Lorian pleads this will be over soon, himself. If not for his own sake; he can feel exhaustion ebbing from his brother as though he was trying to absorb all the energy in the room. But unfortunately there was not much to take – hushed tones between a rigid yet impassive speech offered little in the way of any sort of… well, anything.

He wished that he could nudge Lothric somehow and say something to lift his spirits, but between Father not so far away and all the eyes in the room he could do little more than quietly promise it’d be over soon. When soon was, well, was beyond him.

Time seems to flow like ice in a half-frozen river, moments grinding up against one another in this too-warm room, with no way to tell one from another apart from when Lorian would occasionally adjust his grip to make his brother more comfortable. Lothric tries to just slip into unconsciousness, his face hidden by his hood, but just as he nods off, the priest speaks his final line.

“Please, step forward.”

Lorian pauses, reconsidering – it was rather obvious that if he put down Lothric he may fall asleep, and the floor was so cold... If that happened, he didn’t want to imagine what sort of repercussions that’d have beyond embarrassment.

So, he steels himself and steps forward. Consequences be damned, and something would have to make this coronation more interesting other than someone vomiting wine on someone else’s shoes. If it meant Lothric would maybe stay awake, and at least be a _little_ more comfortable, then so it’d be.

How would he kneel, anyway? Already so exhausted, did anyone really expect him to be able to sit up for however long it took to get this over with?

At least that’s what Lorian tells himself, averting his gaze from any eyes that try to reach his.

“...it is _traditional_ for the incoming king to kneel.” Oceiros’ deep voice cuts through the haze surrounding Lothric’s mind, though he does not show it, still dangling bonelessly in Lorian’s arms. Despite the old king’s fraying appearance these days, his eyes still glittered with dark clarity. Some guests stare at the three of them, but more watch the floor, or gaze out the fogged windows.

Lothric reaches up, putting one spindly arm around Lorian’s shoulder, even though he knew his brother would resist any attempts made to pull him away and place him on the ground. From experience he knew that even if the air was hot and stagnant, the stone sapped heat through the thin carpeting. He doubted he’d be able to keep himself from collapsing if he was set down.

But for his elder brother, it mattered not the number of years that pass nor how many heads above his father he grew, despite falling short of directly of snapping his jaws there is a shard in Father’s voice fit for ice that would so easily pierce his heart. Lorian feels his will already begin to crack, but it healed over as Lothric’s arm curled around his shoulder.

He may as well have been a child again, for all that it mattered. But something in him had a little more of a backbone. So he stands still and tries to say something clever while biting back whatever words he really wanted to say, if just to keep Lothric out of trouble.

“This is… true, yes, my lord,” already does he wish to slap himself across the forehead, “but… he will be unable to take his vows if he’s unconscious.”

He tries to keep the stiffness out of his face as his stomach cringed. Whatever punishment was in store for him would have to wait until later, at least then Lothric would be away to rest.

Someone in the back of the crowd coughs, and in that moment Lothric would have given almost anything to be back in his bed, away from these people. He doesn’t have the clarity of mind to dwell on how they were all here out of obligation only ( _tr_ _adition_ , like Oceiros had said), how in a few years they were all going to gather here again and celebrate his holy immolation, probably in front of his own charred skeleton. How there would be little left for Lorian after his treasonous actions, at best disowned and at worst executed.

Oceiros stares the two of them down, his sunken eyes boring into Lorian’s. “It bodes ill for his kingdom if a king cannot even stay awake for his own crowning. It is a bad omen. Set him down, Lorian.”

Like any kind of scar, it was easy to rip open any sort of resolution he’d put together the second time.

Though Lorian’s jaw noticeably tensed – if he clenched his jaw any tighter one would think he’d have cracked his teeth – as gently as he could he set Lothric down.

“Forgive me...” his voice is barely audible. Though meant for Lothric, he phrased it towards Father.

He takes the smallest step back that he could, so that when the moment came he could scoop him back up once more, and sets his arms in front of himself, one hand closed around his fist – or rather, strangling it. Trying to capture some sense of serenity despite how fire lashed from his soul.

Lothric does forgive him, knowing how difficult it was to say no to their father, even for someone like Lorian who could snap the man in half like a twig. It was not a question of physical strength; unless you had grown up with Oceiros breathing down your neck, it was impossible to understand. Except, perhaps, to those who had fathers just like him.

The floor is icy cold, just as he’d expected, and he slumps forward on his elbows, legs folded under him. There’s ash embedded in the carpet, a sea of legs surrounding him, curtains of ivory and red and black clerical robes. It’s close enough to a proper kneel to be acceptable. Far away, he hears the priest speaking again, but it’s like listening to someone as he held his head underwater. Darkness blooms in the corners of his vision, he can feel his heartbeat in his ears, but he knows it can’t go on much longer.

Lorian dares to look at their father once, and for a brief moment their eyes do meet. His broken resolve gives him only but small shards to send as daggers, but those melt away as soon as Father looks back.

He averts his gaze, instead tending back to Lothric. Perhaps if he doesn’t focus so much, the vows will go faster and soon he’ll be able to spirit him away before he passes out.

“Do you swear that you will…”

Good gods how many different ways can one ask “will you not screw up and abandon your station?” before even the orator got bored? Lorian thought rather roughly. He almost wishes someone would heave again.

Lothric manages to give faint, mumbled responses to each question, pitched high enough to be considered affirmative. They seem to go on forever, the same question more or less each time, and he forgets one each as soon as he agrees to it.

“Then,” the priest begins the final part of the oath, “By the Grace of the First Flame and the blessings of Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight, you are hereby crowned king of Lothric, long may His light fall upon you...” The heavy silver crown descends upon Lothric’s head, and the priest has to hold the young king’s chin so he doesn’t slump over and let it fall to the floor. A palpable sense of relief sweeps through the room, a collective breath exhaled. A few people even laugh weakly or pour themselves another drink.

Lorian stops himself short of scooping Lothric up just running off; as carefully as he could he helps his brother into a comfortable position, but there is very little resistance. Lothric turns his face away as he’s lifted and cradled gently, pressing his hot cheek to the blessedly cool metal of Lorian’s chestplate.

Lorian nearly walks out without ceremony, but he knew by the look Father gave him that Oceiros wanted him back _quickly_. Swallowing the knot in his throat he acknowledges their parent and swiftly turns to leave, wading through the sea of little legs.

Dear lords, he hopes Lothric wasn’t conscious enough to hear them. With what whispers he could hear he knows that this was just a means to an end – sooner or later they’d come around again to throw him in the flame and there’d be a much more joyful party. Though, he didn’t need to hear any of them to know this. He’d known it for a long time.

At the very least, the hallways are much more easily crossed without a throng of people to elbow through. Soon enough he pushes the door open to Lothric’s room and lets out a sigh of relief.

The bedroom resembles a shrine more than a place of proper rest, heavy curtains covering the windows, the only light provided by votive candles in little red jars, lined up along the walls. At the end of the room sits his bed, presumptuously massive and draped in black fabric. The covers are still mussed from where he’d been sleeping earlier, before he’d been dragged out to attend his impromptu coronation. He says nothing as he’s carried, chills trembling all down his scrawny body. He even seems like he might have fallen unconscious again, but as Lorian sets the crown aside, lays him down and pulls the covers back over him, he grabs onto his brother’s wrist. “Don’t... you don’t have to go,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to talk to them...”

Oceiros probably wanted him back, but for what? Even in his feverish state Lothric knew it was just for show, that it didn’t mean anything other than making sure Lorian obeyed him. Nobody else probably cared if Lorian was there or not. For them, it was all over, and they could finally relax, at least until it was time for the next step in this procession.

“I won’t be long… that is a promise I can keep today,” carefully Lorian pulls Lothric’s fingers away from his wrist, feeling the chills go down their bony frames. There was heat somewhere in those bones, but it was the feverish kind. He smiles, just a little, even though it makes something sink in his chest. Soon did he turn to leave though, and it fades off his face. Lothric draws his hand back to his chest, lifting his tired head just enough to watch as Lorian walks off, before letting it fall with a thump and a shaky sigh. Lorian was far braver than he could ever be. Hopefully he would come back before the night was over and rest.

Anxiety stings and unfurls inside him, making his steps faster even though it only brought Lorian ever closer to _him_. It’d just have to be over with, though, and the faster he got there the faster he’d get back, hopefully.

Already did Lorian plan what he’d do and say. Cultivating saint-like patience and trying to cobble back together whatever scraps of resolve he could, but quietly this time. A thousand times Father had managed to break his will and he would most likely do so a thousand times more, but twice that he’d put it back together if it meant protecting Lothric, or at least trying to.

Re-entering the room, he held his breath as he made his way back. Oceiros turns to face him and Lorian turns as still and stiff as stone.

“Yes, my lord?” it felt like pushing poison out of his mouth, but he spoke quickly.

“Lorian.” The wine glass in his father’s hand is smeared with blood, the underside of his long nails black with it. By now the crowd has dispersed, some returning to their rooms, to what they’d been in the middle of before they’d been called to gather in the hall, but others linger, talking amongst themselves, drinking. Some of the vomit from earlier has been mopped up already, but the acrid, vinegary smell lingers. “Next time, do as you are told. Don’t draw out your brother’s suffering. Do you understand?”

“Y-Yes my lord” Lorian's voice shakes, just slightly.

He’s able to look at his father for a moment but quickly he averts his eyes, awaiting to either be dismissed or further harangued. He’s far too old and Father is far too unsympathetic for him to wet his eyes and leave without either happening.

It’s a show, of course. Despite everything, Lorian is still under his thumb and would continue to be – though he stares at his feet he can see a few of those around cover their mouths and whisper to each other, or they look at him with a long, knowing sip of wine.

He wants to hiss and screech and lose his temper for once, but nothing can bring him to. Instead it simply smolders in his chest the way coals do. Something stirs under the surface of his thoughts, but he tucks that away to prepare himself for the worst case scenario.

“This whole... mess. I would not have chosen it, but we work with what are given, don’t we?” Oceiros raises his eyebrows at Lorian, then gazes back out at the thin crowd. “Gods know I did all I could. All of them... ungrateful.” He trembles for a moment, sucking air in through his nostrils, his jaw clenched. His stubbly cheeks are red, either with drink or with fury, perhaps both. “They all tried, all their useless rutting, but _I_ was the one who saved us. They don’t even look at me.”

Angrily, he wipes at his face, smearing flecks of blood across his cheeks and under his nose, through his graying mustache and beard. “They have no idea what it took, Lorian...”

Lorian felt one thought break to the surface as he listens to his father’s words… sacrifices made to create a perfect heir, no? It makes his stomach twist, but he halts any further action at first.

He lifts his head to speak, turning to look out the same way as Oceiros.

“It is rare we fully understand the sacrifices made on our part – the same way one expects for the flowers to bloom in spring without paying much thought to the bees and other things to go into but one petal unfolding. I suppose we can only hope for the clarity of appreciating those sacrifices, if not now but soon.”

Bitterness spark the cinders within. Perhaps if he had less control he would have laughed at the irony. Sacrifices were made, yes, but not on _his_  part. He wants to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him until he’s malleable like clay, to hiss in his face that Lothric is the one who burns, not _you_.

He keeps his thoughts to himself, but he can feel his face begin to distort as contempt bubbles through.

It combines with the sickened feeling to create deep disdain, but there is a small part of him that wants to wipe the blood off his father’s face.

If Oceiros notices, he makes no indication, preoccupied with his own festering thoughts. Though his voice wavers, his eyes remain sharp. “Yes... yes, perhaps in time they will recognize my work. It matters little, they will never truly understand. I have greater plans in mind, we are far from finished...”

He trails off for several moments, muttering to himself before his head snaps back around to face Lorian. “What are you still doing here? Go fetch the crown. You know it’s meant to sit upon the throne. Gods know your brother’s not going to do it.” The sorry bag of bones couldn’t even sit upright for longer than a few minutes, complaining how his spine hurt. Well. He wasn’t going to be king for very long.

Lorian bid goodbye, leaving as swiftly as his legs would carry him as soon as he was no longer in his father’s attentions.

The door closes behind him as he enters the bedroom, letting out a heavy sigh and rubbing his face with his palm.

“I’m back” he says softly – enough so that if Lothric were asleep he would not wake him.

Lothric murmurs something indecipherable, finding himself unable to fall asleep with how much his head and limbs ached. He felt like he’d been thrown down a rocky cliffside and left to bake in the sun for days. At least Lorian hadn’t been away long. In fact it seems like he’d only been out a minute or two. Why couldn’t time have passed this quickly during the ceremony? He coughs as Lorian draws nearer, and rasps, “What did he say?” _He_ , of course, being Oceiros.

Lothric could feel the foot of the bed depress as Lorian sat down, his brother letting out another sigh.

“Nothing of meaning, but if you want to know…”

He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. Despite how much of the earlier tension left his body, he was still left with a simmering disgust at the pit of his stomach. How to phrase if Lothric _did_  want to know? He wouldn’t lie to him, and it was little more than suspicion on his part for a very _particular_  aspect of those supposed ‘sacrifices’, but deeper still was he did not want to repeat the poison their father had let out of his mouth.

How his words fell from his lips in complete sincerity. There was madness in him, but that madness had only amplified anything he’d long believed. There was once a piece of Lorian that wanted to believe there was a sliver of a good man still inside their father, someone their mother could love, but after hearing what he’d just heard it more or less crushed that belief. Lothric didn’t deserve those same feelings while also feeling unwell, though he hardly believes there was any sort of way to receive that knowledge.

Lothric struggles to roll over so he can properly see his brother, all the way at the other end of the massive bed. “Lorian... You can tell me. I know what he thinks of me, and... and you.” Maybe at one point, years and years ago, Oceiros had loved Lorian, loved his first child or at least thought fondly of him, but now he seemed to see Lorian only as another servant, someone to be barked at when they didn’t operate to his satisfaction. Was he lonely? Did he understand why almost everyone avoided him? It would be pitiable, if he wasn’t such an awful man.

“...it’s okay if you don’t want to. We can talk about it tomorrow.” He licks his chapped lips, looking blearily over to see if there was still water in the pitcher left beside his bed. Finally king, the ruler of one of the most powerful kingdoms currently standing, and he couldn’t even get water for himself.

“No, I just didn’t want to keep you awake by… mentioning anything that would prevent your rest.” Part of the truth, but he trusts that Lothric can handle the whole of it so long as it was dropped into his lap.

Lorian gets up, pouring what was left from the pitcher into a cup and sliding it closer to Lothric.

“He spoke of sacrifice, as though it’s he who has lost much. Perhaps he has, to an extent, but it was all by his own hand” he disliked the bite in his voice, but his beating heart only serves as a drum to urge himself on. “As though it’s not his own damn fault he’s alienated us all.”

He fumes for a moment, but after taking a deep breath whatever flame has grown in his chest is swiftly blown away. He sits down again, a little closer this time so Lothric didn’t have to shift so much.

“I don’t think he really heard what I had to say, though perhaps it’s better that way.”

Lothric waits for him to finish speaking before trying to grab the cup, lifting it to his lips with trembling hands. He only manages to get some of it into his mouth, spilling most of it onto his chest. It does at least cool him down a little. So rare to see Lorian angry like this... Usually he kept it so deep inside him, a tiny ember in a dark and airless place that burned nonetheless.

“...I hate him so much,” he murmurs. A living saint was not supposed to hate, but he did. He did a lot of things he was not supposed to, things he couldn’t help. “Now they can burn me, if they want. Whenever, if I’m too much trouble to deal with any longer, they can just get rid of me...” His breath hitches, but he hardly has the strength to cry like he wants to, feeling suspended above the abyss and it was only by the grace and goodwill of a people who didn’t love him that he did not fall. He lets his head thump back onto his damp pillow, his thin chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath.

Lorian at first sits still, looking into hands folded in his lap. The thought he'd tucked away before -- as though he feared even thinking on it would get him caught in a bind -- resurfaces.

“I know I have not always been able to stand and protect you… either from them or _him_ ,” he caught himself short of hissing, resuming a calmer tone, “but… now that _you_  are king, there is little he can do anymore and… I won't let them _near_  you if you'd ask that of me. I cannot say I can always protect you from their words but I will never stand to watch you burn."

Lorian moves up again briefly if only to lift Lothric’s head while he flipped the pillow to its less damp side. While he wasn't entirely sure how he'd prevent that, he did mean it. But while Lothric knew that was true on paper, that he _was_ king, it didn’t necessarily mean he had any more power than before. There were such things as puppet kings. Who was really going to listen to him if he ordered Oceiros arrested? Who was going to do anything but laugh when he tried to make changes? He was only a means to an end. In a few years he’d be gone. Why even bother?

The cool pillow on his cheek beckons him to sleep, he doesn’t want to argue with his brother when he can barely focus his eyes. “...you did alright. There’s so many of them. You’re just one person. I understand if it’s too much.”

Lorian’s eyes flicker with thoughts, watching his brother. He can see him thinking, and though he cannot read his mind he does know that sleep would come soon.

“Lots of mouths, little teeth. Even less so now that father is gone–” he pauses and amends that, “–more or less. But I think that’s enough of that for now, why not rest? If you’d like we can discuss more tomorrow, or some other time, or not at all.”

Lorian stood to leave, but before he did he asks, “Do you need anything?”

The only thing Lothric really needs is to rest, and he knows it. His brother would probably be back to check on him in a few hours, anyway. He hated being alone in this room when he had a fever, surrounded by the little red candles like so many eyes in the darkness. But everyone already demanded so much of Lorian...

He burrows underneath his blankets, shuddering as another chill wracks him. “No. I’ll be fine. See you in the morning.”

Lorian pauses for a moment. The phrasing of his brother’s bid goodnight bothers him a bit, giving him cause to reconsider.

It had been more reflex, he figures, that he would return to the party. Does he really want to? The answer was a resounding no. Even the part of him that was bothered by fear of repercussions by not rushing back as he’d said he’d do so is met with two rebuttals; he’d already been gone for a while, and it wasn’t like Father would remember he was gone anyway.

Larger, though, was that he really didn’t want to leave Lothric alone then. The day had been most terrible for him, after all, and remembering putting him down on the cold floor there causes a sharp pain. He’d left him about as alone in a crowd full of people one could be, and he doesn’t wish to leave him alone once more.

So he shifts to turn around. “On second thought, how about I stay here.”

After a moment, Lothric tugs the covers back down, peering out at Lorian from the folds of his bedsheets. Even now, he can’t keep guilt from nibbling at him. The same thought occurs, the cold stone beneath his swollen joints, but he had not been there for very long. It wasn’t as if Lorian had placed him on a bed of coals. But, all the same, he wasn’t going to argue. He’d gotten what he really wanted. He nods. Tomorrow he’d brace himself for the full weight of his new duties to fall upon him. Everything that being a king (even a puppet king) entailed, the vultures he knew would start gathering like he was a dying deer, hardly waiting for him to expire before sinking their claws in, trying to intimidate him into serving their wants and needs. All the new threats Lorian would have to watch out for, more from their own family than from any outside enemies. For now, all he wanted to do was sleep.

Lorian settles down a little ways away, by the end of the bed, eyes wandering around the room for a moment, looking for something to do that wouldn’t bother his brother. There’s still nervous energy holding over from a rather stressful day.

He settles on just sitting, though, leaning back with his arms folded, allowing his eyes to close. There is anxiety; some fear that next time he opens his eyes Lothric will not be there, but he knows he is no good to anyone if he’s exhausted.

Before drifting off, though, he speaks one last time. “Rest now, if you can. I’m here, and I don’t plan on leaving any time soon…”

It was often a risk that Lothric would fall asleep somewhere and end up in an entirely different place, the priests having moved him during his sleep. Lorian absolutely hated when they did that to him, but his scoldings didn’t seem to have discouraged them much. Knowing they might want their king present shortly, Lothric crawls slowly over to Lorian and tugs his arm out of its crossed position, taking and hugging into his chest, still feverishly warm. Now, if they came in while he was resting, Lorian would surely notice his absence.

Fortunately for them, they are forgotten for tonight, as the rest of the family gathers to make plans for the young king in his stead. A new age would soon begin, a new saint canonized in their already extensive catalogue. The Flame deserved only the best, and they promised, priests and priestesses gathered in feverish prayer as the brothers slept, that the next one would be better.

  



End file.
